I Know, Idiot
by Jean Hicks
Summary: An incredible fight in 221B reveals that John and Sherlock have been dancing around certain certainties for at least a year. A bit of fluff based off of a piece of fan-art I found. Read, review, and enjoy. Mild slash, mild cursing.


**AN: **A little bit of Johnlock fluff, based off of a picture I found on Instagram- now used as the picture for this fiction. Unfortunately, I can't read the credit, so if you happen to know who did the original drawing, please let me know and I will edit the story to reflect his or her contribution. Read, review, and enjoy!

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221 B was silent, an unusual occurrence for the early evening. The silence was especially unusual considering the roaring argument that had taken place a few hours before. Generally if there were rows in the flat, the two men yelled a bit, Sherlock threw something, John slammed a door, and then they made up and gentle laughter or talking rolled out of the flat for hours. This time around there had been a lot of yelling, a lot of breaking glass, and several slamming doors. Neither man had left, but the flat had been silent ever since.

John Watson paced through the living room, carefully picking up pieces of shattered laboratory equipment. His laptop lay in two pieces near the window. He scowled at it. He couldn't remember if he had been the one to throw it from the desk or if it had been Sherlock. John ran his hands through his sandy brown hair and sighed. Living with Sherlock, John reasoned, had always been a challenge, but in the five years since John knew him, they had never had a row like this.

To be fair, John reasoned, Sherlock had been gone for three of those years. When the detective returned from the dead, John had hit him on the jaw, but then John cried and they moved on. They never fought about it anymore than that. This, however, was different.

Earlier in the day, a jewel thief and amateur murderer had led them on a brutal chase through the streets of London, ending in Sherlock taking a dangerous and breathtaking tumble off of the Millennium Bridge and into the river. John watched for minutes as the water stilled and calmed, and yet Sherlock did not resurface. He was running down the bridge to the bank of the river before the water broke and Sherlock emerged, dragging the sodden and gasping criminal with him.

John was furious, and he really couldn't explain why, but before Sherlock could even put on dry clothes at the flat they were fighting. John was yelling nonsense and Sherlock responded in kind. Sherlock, ever the child, threw the first tea cup. John threw the second. Sherlock called him childish. They were now out of tea cups.

More yelling. Why had Sherlock jumped off the bridge? Why did John stay on the bridge? Why not just let Lestrade catch him on the bank? Why didn't John let him keep body parts in the shelves above the food? Why did Sherlock never bring home milk? Why did he have to be so bloody irritating? Why was Sherlock so ready to die?

"We work in a dangerous profession, John… sometimes we must take risks!" His flatmate thundered at him, inches away from his nose. John fought the urge to slam his fist into that perfectly sculpted profile.

"You can't just throw yourself into every line of fire you come across just because you get off on the thrill, Sherlock." He replied, keeping his fists clenched so hard that his nails cut crescents into his skin.

Sherlock turned on his heel with a dramatic sigh. "Why the bloody hell not?" The curse was punctuated with a glass beaker smashing against the wall behind the sofa.

"Because I… because people care about you!" John threw his hands into the air. The taller man gave him a disgusting sneer. In two long steps he was once again face to face with his blogger.

"No one cares about me." Sherlock spat. "Unless you count Mycroft, which I don't… It's a waste of time to _care_ about me. So why don't you turn your idiotic little brain to some other _charity_ case."

John's fist shot out to hit Sherlock, but the detective's hand caught his wrist. They were both breathing heavily. "You are not a charity case." John ground out, and suddenly the air was full of an electricity John couldn't explain. His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement and then locked onto John's. Pulse rates increased. Pupils dilated.

Moments passed. John leaned forward and their noses brushed. The kiss was short and swift, just a pressing of the lips. John had only seconds to register how incredibly soft Sherlock's lips were, hot and dry beneath his own.

Sherlock dropped John's wrist like he had been shocked. His eyes widened, almost as if he was afraid. He backed away. Even after the fight, his hair and clothes were still damp from the river. John opened his mouth as if to speak and then promptly shut it. His flatmate turned on his heel and strode to his door, which he promptly slammed.

That left John in the living room, picking up the pieces of trash from the fight and wondering if there was any way he was to pick up the pieces of his shattered friendship with Sherlock. Why did he kiss him?

John had to be honest. He had been attracted to Sherlock since before he fell off of the roof of St. Barts, but upon Sherlock's return the attraction had become a constant in his life. He learned to ignore it. Sherlock had made it clear that he wasn't interested on the first day they had met. That hadn't changed.

Or, maybe it had. In the past year there had been more non-case related dinners, more of John's favorite violin pieces played without being requested, and Sherlock tried to be a little less annoying and had even brought home bread when needed on two occasions. Perhaps this fight, in all its grandeur and with its spectacularly unexpected ending, had been the culmination of fifty-two weeks' worth of tension.

He replayed Sherlock's words again in his head. The detective hadn't just been talking about friendship. He was afraid John saw him as someone who pitied him, a charity case, someone who stuck around just so Sherlock wouldn't drive himself insane. The doctor fell to the couch with the weight of what he just realized. While John was dancing around his insecurities, Sherlock was dancing around an infinitely more complicated and brutal set.

John buried his face in his hands. He heard the shower turn on, and then off again. He waited ten minutes and then walked to Sherlock's bedroom door. He knocked and was surprised when the door swung open on its own. "Sherlock…"

The detective was sprawled across the bed in his usual pajamas and blue tattered bathrobe. John sighed and slid down to the floor, his back to the rumpled white sheets. "About what happened just then…" He began. Sherlock cut him off.

"I shouldn't have fought with you. I said some really terrible things. You don't deserve that from me."

John smirked. "Yes, well…. I said some things I shouldn't have as well. But I would say that I'm the one who doesn't deserve you, Sherlock."

"Nonsense…" He whispered.

"No," John leaned his head back against the sheets. "Not nonsense. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a brilliant man. You are intelligent, brave, and while you might not always be the kindest man, you're kind to me… usually."

Sherlock started to speak. "Let me finish, because you may not like what I'm going to say and I'd rather not be embarrassed twice."

"Sherlock… when you left… after the fall… I was shattered." He took a deep breath. "You don't know how much a person means to you until they're gone. And I was lucky that time, Sherlock, you came back. But today when I watched you jump in the river, and you didn't resurface… all I could think about was you lying dead at the bottom of the Thames. I would have never told you what you meant to me. I got mad, and then you came up from the river all smug and, bloody hell if I wasn't even angrier with you." John's eyes were red, flooded with tears that he was not ashamed to let fall.

"You don't put any thought into the fact that you're putting yourself in danger. You don't care if you die because you obviously don't think anyone cares for you, but Sherlock, that's not true. Damn it. I care about you. I need you. And I don't know if you feel the same way, but please know that I care about you. God help me, I do."

Sherlock was silent. The sheets rustled and it took John a moment to realize that Sherlock was repositioning himself so his head rested over the edge of the bed, on the shoulder of John's blue and black stripped jumper. John relished in the feel of Sherlock's curly hair on his cheek. He leaned into the detective's breath. "Oh Sherlock…" He sighed softly. They were silent for a few moments.

"I love you, John." The detective let out a long breath, but he said nothing else. For Sherlock Holmes, this was declaration enough. He didn't need to tell John that he had loved him since they met. He didn't need to tell John that the thought of dying scared him now more than ever, simply because he felt he had someone to leave behind. Four words, short and simple… "I love you, John."

John smiled, "I know, idiot." Sherlock laughed, short and hot in his ear. The blogger turned his head and found himself nose to nose with the world's only consulting detective.

The only natural thing to do now was to kiss him again.


End file.
